


Pet

by RedHorse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fraternity, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Collars, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Magical Realism, Multi, Murder, Mysteries, Rituals, Rough Oral Sex, Underage (16/19), all the dubious consent, also dubious consent for a myriad other reasons, but not great ones, dubious consent due to mistaken identity, maybe not-so-light, spitroasting!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-20 02:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20668028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHorse/pseuds/RedHorse
Summary: Tom never told Harry about his brothers. (Complete! Posting one chapter per day.)





	1. David

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trashgoblinwizardparty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashgoblinwizardparty/gifts).

> This fic is complete! I'll post one chapter per day (unless I forget).
> 
> Based on [this incredible art](https://dontneedanothertomarryblog.tumblr.com/post/185216241877/anyway) by trashgoblinwizardparty.

Harry woke up alone. He was used to that. Still, it was awkward to step out, half-dressed, into Tom’s hallway.

“Good morning, sunshine,” said Ethan Rosier, leaning in the adjacent doorway. His leering smirk still grated, but Harry wasn’t as easily ruffled as he once was. He shot him a bored, unimpressed look he’d copied from Tom.

“How long do you spend waiting around, listening for this doorknob to turn? Is it just me, or are you usually hoping to perv on Tom?”

Rosier’s smile dimmed, then brightened again determinedly. “You’re more my type.”

Rosier’s roommate, Alex Nott, elbowed past with his towel under his arm and gave Rosier a censoring look. “Leave him alone, Ethan, Jesus,” he muttered, then smiled politely at Harry. “Good morning, Harry.” 

“Hi, Alex,” Harry said with an answering smile. Unlike most of the people he had occasion to bump into on the seniors’ floor, Alex was usually pretty nice to him. 

“Go ahead, if you want the bathroom,” Alex said, tilting his head toward the closed door at the end of the hallway. “I’ll go in a bit.” 

“Thanks,” Harry said, heading that way. As he walked off, he heard Nott speaking to Rosier in a low voice. 

“You don’t need to be a dick all the time.” 

”But Harry _likes_ dicks. Literally and metaphorically.”

“He’s a nice kid. He doesn’t deserve to have them fucking with him. The least you can do is not…”

Harry was too far away to hear more. He didn’t care. He did his best to block out the others’ bickering, particularly the upperclassmen. 

Harry appreciated Alex’s concern, really, but Harry was a pledge. A little halfhearted hazing was the least he expected, and he knew it would be a lot worse if Tom hadn’t taken an...interest...in him.

He brushed his teeth, ran damp fingertips through his hair, reapplied deodorant and waved at Alex when he passed him in the hall on his way out. He slid into his tennis shoes and jogged down the stairs, and was almost to the front door when it swung open from the other side. 

He nearly collided with the kid coming through, recognizing the slender teen at once. Daniel scowled automatically at the fumble, then he saw Harry properly and his expression instantly transitioned to a warm smile. 

“Harry, good morning. You’re looking…” He looked at Harry’s worn gray athletic shorts and mismatched socks without judgment.“Great,” he decided, a gleam in his eyes, so unnervingly like Tom’s. Really, they could have been twins, if it wasn’t so obvious Daniel was a full six years younger. The compliment sounded surprisingly sincere from someone wearing an outfit of impeccable style, hair just as carefully combed as his brother's always was. The only flaw in his appearance, Harry knew without even bothering to look, was his perpetually ink-smudged fingers. Daniel could often be caught stealing a moment to write or draw, always in messy ink. 

“Thanks, Daniel,” Harry said, bemused. He knew Daniel had a little crush, and even though it annoyed Tom, Harry found it kind of sweet. “I’d stay and talk, but…” 

“You’re almost late for your Honors class. It’s your first day, right?”

Harry thought that Daniel knowing his schedule probably veered from sweet to disturbing, but tried not to dwell on it. “Yeah, it is.” 

Daniel nodded. “I hope you did your reading.”

Harry blinked. He had. Sort of. Forcing him to do his homework was one of Tom’s chief missions in life, even before they’d gotten together. But before Harry could finish his reading assignment the night before, Tom had revisited his priorities and they’d...well. Harry hadn’t finished his assignment, anyway. But it wasn’t like professors did anything but pass out the syllabus the first day anyway. 

“I hope you read all the way to the_last_ page,” Daniel repeated with careful emphasis. Harry stared at him, bemused. 

“I’ll do a quick review before class,” he compromised. “See you later.” 

He resisted the urge to tousle Daniel’s hair; he hated that heartbroken look Daniel got if Harry treated him like a kid. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” 

Daniel shook his head. His hair was longer than Tom’s, and the lines of his face still round. Sometimes Harry wished Tom looked like that: soft, sweet, earnest. “I’m dropping something off for Tom, and then I have my apprenticeship.” 

“Right. I want to know how that’s going, but I’ve got to…” 

”Go,” Daniel agreed, stepping out of the doorway. “And don’t forget to read,” he added with a stern look that was so very much like Tom, Harry smiled.

“I won’t,” he promised, and hurried along. “Tell Dr. Riddle I said hello.” 

Daniel’s smile looked strained and he ducked his head. “Sure.”

It was a bright, late-summer morning. The season had been mild and wet, leaving the trees leafy as a jungle, the grass bright and dense. It was the first day of Harry’s second semester at Founders’ College, and he couldn’t believe how much had changed since his very first day of school those several months before. For one thing, he hadn’t imagined himself even speaking to fraternity guys, let alone pledging a fraternity himself. And while he’d cautiously hoped he’d make a few friends, he certainly hadn’t anticipated any romance. 

Harry jogged up the steps to the building where he was supposed to find his first class. Honors Seminar in History. He wasn’t sure how he’d even managed to get in. There was always a long waiting list. When he’d told Tom, he’d looked pensive instead of smug, so it must not have been him pulling the strings. 

Remembering Daniel’s cryptic words, Harry leaned against the wall outside the classroom to reread the last page or so of the reading assignment from the text. He’d downloaded it as an ebook on his phone. 

There were a few end-of-chapter questions that made him rethink the first few pages, too, so he scrolled back and forth then reread the middle for good measure, while an increasingly steady flow of students passed him in the hall and filed into the classroom. 

Harry was almost the last one to come in, luckily finding a spot on the aisle just before the clock turned to the hour. At that precise moment, the door at the back of the room opened to admit the professor. 

Harry already knew the professor’s last name was Riddle. It wasn’t that uncommon a name, and when he’d jokingly asked Tom if the guy was his uncle, Tom had given him a scathing look and tied his arms tightly behind his back before teaching him a very pleasant lesson “about asking stupid questions.” 

The professor wasn’t Tom’s dad. He wasn’t old enough for that. But he had to be his brother. He looked so much like the other Riddles that there really wasn’t another explanation. He was skimming the crowd with a cool dark stare, clean-shaven but with neat, thick sideburns that suggested he could easily grow a neat beard, while Tom couldn’t possibly. He was probably in his mid-thirties, and in a sport jacket and starched jeans, dressed much more casually than anyone else Harry had encountered in the faculty.

He noticed Harry, then. His gaze snagged then lingered. Harry wondered if Tom or Daniel had mentioned Harry to him, and why the hell no one had mentioned _him_ to Harry. 

But then, that was just like Tom. He seemed to delight in shocking Harry. 

“Good morning,” said the Professor, in an older version of Tom’s voice that had a disconcerting effect on Harry. The rest of the group also seemed to immediately fall silent and pay attention, though Harry doubted it was for the _exact_ same reason.

“I am Professor Riddle. Welcome to my Honors Seminar, where I’ll do my best to condense human history into sixteen class sessions. Each of you are here because you are considered extraordinary—doubly so. Once, presumably, for making the cut for admission into this prestigious school, and a second time for making the cut for admission into this sought-after class. I would congratulate you, but in my experience there are very few in this room who _deserve_ to be here.”

There was a murmur of unease in the room, and it made Professor Riddle smile coolly. “Indignant, are you? Well, I am happy to be proven wrong. Can anyone tell me the step in human evolution commonly thought to have launched our ancestors’ unprecedented increase in intellectual capacity?” 

Harry blinked. That had been one of the questions at the end of the chapter. He looked left, toward a blushing girl with a sleek blond ponytail, then right, toward a boy who was carefully avoiding Professor Riddle’s eye. 

Harry wasn’t the type to volunteer an answer no one else knew. Hell, he wasn’t the type to _know_ the answer that no one else did. He did his best to hold still, but Professor Riddle had noticed him again. When Harry glanced forward, their eyes met. 

“Hello. Your name, please?” 

Harry swallowed. He had the distinct impression that Professor Riddle already knew what his name was.

“Harry Potter.” 

“Harry Potter. Freshman. Can you answer my question?” 

Harry cleared his throat. “Bipedalism.”

Surprise and approval flashed in Professor Riddle’s dark eyes, reminding Harry intensely of the way Tom could look when Harry let him try something despite being particularly reluctant. 

“Very good,” said Professor Riddle, and the back of Harry’s neck tingled. “At last, a young man worthy of my time.”


	2. Daniel

Annoyed with Tom, Harry went to his dormitory instead of back to the Delta Omega Phi house. He was about to flop onto his bed when he realized Ron was already there, snoring softly and drooling on his pillow. 

Harry poked him in the ribs and put his hands on his hips when Ron woke with a snort and rolled over, looking up at Harry with wide blue eyes. 

“Why are you in my bed?” 

“Why not? You never sleep on it.” Ron didn’t sound irritated, exactly, only matter-of-fact. 

"I’d like to sometimes!” Harry shot back. “Like right now. Anyway, you have your own bed!” He pointed at the rumpled bed in question. It was on the other side of the room, which, in their tiny dorm, meant just a few steps away from Harry’s. 

“I need to wash my sheets,” Ron said, sitting up and stretching with a wide yawn. Harry scowled at him. 

“Now I need to wash mine, too,” he muttered, sitting down next to Ron then flopping backwards. “Don’t you have class?” 

Ron leaned back down on his elbows and looked at Harry. “Nah. Skipping.” 

Harry wrinkled his nose, but Ron could get away with stuff like that. He wasn’t really an auditory learner; he could skip every lecture but do the reading and still pass his exams. It drove Hermione crazy. 

“What’s wrong? You and Tom fighting, and not in, like, a sex way?” 

Harry looked at Ron in disbelief. “ _A sex way_?” He knew Ron had been baffled when he’d seen Harry’s bruises once in the shower, but he’d thought at the end of the long and intensely awkward conversation that followed, they’d reached some kind of understanding. Apparently not. 

Ron scratched his nose. “Well?” 

Harry rolled his eyes and considered the question. “I have Professor Riddle for my Honors Seminar.”

“I know,” Ron said, then sighed. “Hermione won’t shut up about it. I’ll summarize her rant for you: she didn’t get in; it makes no sense; Professor Riddle is a genius; he’s been on sabbatical supposedly doing some top-secret consulting for some top-secret company.” He yawned. “So is he a huge dick or something?”

“He looks exactly like Tom,” Harry said, frowning at all the other information Ron had just rattled off. “They’re brothers, or at least cousins.”

“The little one looks just like him, too. Strong genes I guess. So, what’s the problem?” 

“He never told me,” Harry said. Ron just looked confused. Harry thought his outrage had been justified, but now that he saw Ron’s reaction, he second-guessed his own. “Don’t you think that’s weird?”

Ron looked slightly trapped. “No?” he said cautiously. When Harry’s brows rose, he held up his hands defensively and rolled a few feet further away to the end of the bed. “Well, I don’t think it’s weird for _Tom_ . Your boyfriend is an asshole.”

Harry frowned, but while he usually argued with Ron when he said that kind of thing, he found he lacked the energy to deny it at the moment. 

“I guess I shouldn’t expect thoughtfulness from Tom, but...” he looked cautiously at Ron, but Ron didn’t have the same feelings about Dr. Riddle as Hermione, he didn’t think. “I just thought Dr. Riddle would have said something.”

Ron looked sympathetic. “I guess so. But maybe it wasn’t, you know, relevant?” 

Not like Hermione, no, but the subject of Harry’s therapy _did_ make Ron a little uneasy. 

“Anyway, I’m pissed,” Harry declared, “so I’m sleeping in my own bed. _After_ you wash my sheets.” 

Ron groaned. “Fine.” He stood up and reached over Harry’s head to jerk the fitted sheet off his own bunk and bundle it under his arm, then held out a hand for Harry’s. Harry pulled it off, wadding it up with the top sheet, and handed them over. 

“Thanks,” he said wryly, and Ron smirked then wandered out to go to the laundry room in the basement. 

That meant Harry was alone in their room when there was a commotion in the hallway. Harry, frowning curiously, turned toward the open door and saw nothing but the blank wall of the hallway opposite. Then he heard a familiar voice. 

“I don’t give a fuck,” said Tom. “Where’s room G1?” 

Harry crossed his arms and made sure that when Tom swung into view in his doorway, the first thing he saw was Harry’s scowl. 

Harry’s resolve faltered a bit at the sight of Tom, the slightest bit out of order from rushing through the restricted-access building, a pink tint in his cheeks and a familiar gleam in his eyes. He always pretended not to, but he liked it when Harry gave him a bit of a chase. 

“Hiding, Harry?” he purred, but he didn’t come in the room, just leaned against the door with a palm splayed against it. His pale skin was a stark contrast to the faux-woodgrain steel, and it caught Harry’s eye. 

“What happened to your hand?” One of his knuckles was swollen and bruised. Tom snatched his hand back to his side. 

“Nothing,” he said. “Doesn’t matter. Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t coming over before the party?” 

They had a habit, dating back to the first frat party Harry had attended after pledging, of Tom vetting Harry’s outfit and shepherding him around at house functions. 

“Because,” Harry said, making sure he sounded angry and not hesitant, “today I had my first class with _Professor Riddle_.” 

Tom looked just as puzzled as Ron had, but on him it involved fewer forehead wrinkles and more of a pout. “So?” 

“_So,” Harry echoed incredulously, “he’s obviously your relative!” _

__

“An older brother,” Tom confirmed, then lowered his voice. “What did he do?” He finally unstuck himself from the doorway and crossed the room in three long strides. He was taller than Harry, and most of it was in his legs. His hands half-encircled Harry’s biceps. “Did he notice you?” 

__

“Thanks to Daniel,” Harry muttered. “He reminded me to do my reading. It’s almost like he knew _his brother_ would ask certain questions.” He shook off Tom’s grip and backed away. “I can’t believe you.” 

__

Tom was caught up on something else Harry had said. “You answered his pretentious questions, from his pretentious book? Correctly?”

__

“Yes,” Harry hissed. “I’m not an idiot. It was right there in the book.” In all honesty, he might have stopped reading after the last paragraph and not gotten to the bulleted questions if it wasn’t for Daniel’s pointed reminder sticking in his head for some reason. “What’s your problem?”

__

Tom closed the distance between them a second time, and this time slipped his hands around Harry’s waist. In this gentler hold, Harry couldn’t quite make himself break free again. He waited for Tom to come up with a decent excuse. Really, it was the least Harry should insist on. 

__

“Sorry, darling,” he murmured, and bent his head to kiss the corner of Harry’s mouth. “I was in denial. I don’t want to share you any more than I already do.” 

__

Harry reluctantly returned the embrace, since Tom was actually being kind of sweet. It was out of character even if what he was saying didn’t exactly make sense. “You don’t have to share me,” Harry said. He tilted his face up so their lips met. Then he pulled back, startled, as the hand he’d let roam up the back of Tom’s neck came away wet. “Are you bleeding?” He stared at his right forefinger which was smeared with bright red blood. “Oh my God.” 

__

Tom kissed Harry carelessly. “It’s nothing. A rough pickup game. But I need to clean up, so I’ll meet you later, hm?” He kissed Harry again, deeply enough to drown out any objection Harry might have come up with, sliding a proprietary hand down the small of Harry’s back. The suggestion made Harry thicken the slightest bit in his jeans. 

__

Tom, feeling it, chuckled as he pulled away and touched Harry’s lower lip with his thumb. “I’ll have something special for you tonight,” he said, winking. “See you after.” 

__

Harry showered, dubiously chose his own clothing for the first time in a few weeks, and waited for Ron to finish getting ready. Dean was in the common room watching some game on TV, so Harry joined him. They smiled mutely at each other then watched the guest team scramble for the ball for a few seconds before the local news interrupted. 

__

_Breaking news_, said a grave-faced anchor. _Fourteen-year-old Myrtle Warren was reported missing this afternoon. Warren, whose father is the assistant dean of Founders College, contacted police early this morning. After a thorough investigation, the authorities decided to issue an AMBER alert. Myrtle was last seen wearing a red Founders hoodie and jeans, leaving home for school. She never arrived there. If you have any information, please call…_

__

Dean and Harry exchanged a quizzical look. “I think I’ve seen her around,” Dean said, nodding at the photograph of a smiling girl with pigtails, glasses and braces that flashed on the screen. “Poor kid. Hope she’s okay.”

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to know what you think!


	3. Andrew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated some of the tags to be more thorough.

When Harry got to the party, still distracted by the somber news of the missing girl, it was still gearing up. The members of the house and their select guests were already making a dent in the kegs in the backyard, and someone was grilling hamburgers in the kitchen, which was guaranteed to piss off the kitchen staff when they came in the next morning.

Still, Harry took a cheeseburger wrapped in foil from under the heat lamp and went looking for Tom. 

He wasn’t there. It was obvious; he was always easy to find. Annoyed, Harry went up to his room to check the dry erase board where Tom sometimes left him messages, but there was nothing there. He sighed and was about to walk off when he saw that the door was partially open, and for some reason instead of simply pulling it closed, Harry nudged it open the rest of the way. 

“Daniel?” 

The boy, standing alone in the shadows, turned with wide eyes. He looked Harry up and down, like he didn’t recognize him. His face seemed oddly pale. “Harry?” 

“Are you okay?” Harry asked, approaching with concern. Daniel stopped by the house fairly often. He lived in town with Dr. Riddle, so Harry had met Daniel long before Tom. On the weekends, Daniel took a few shifts in the house library, scanning and archiving old essays and exams to give future Delta Phis a leg up on their classmates. But he’d never been around so late at night, and Harry was pretty sure the house could get in big trouble for having a teenager on the premises during a party. 

Harry stepped inside the door and let it fall closed behind him, then reached for the light switch. 

“No!” Daniel snapped, and Harry froze, confused. For some reason the hair rose on his arms. Daniel had been half-illuminated by the light coming through the uncovered window: the moon, a few street lamps. When he moved toward the sheltered corner where Tom’s desk sat, Harry could only see him in shadowy profile. If he hadn’t already seen his face and heard his voice, he might have thought he was someone Harry had never met. 

“No, you’re not okay? Or no, you’ve developed some kind of light allergy and I can’t turn them on?” Harry folded his arms, his attempt at a light tone just coming out stilted, tense. “I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to be here.” 

Daniel snorted. “Oh, he was very clear that I was to ‘stay here,’” he muttered, lifting an arm to indicate the small room like it was a prison cell, “until he came for me.” Something flashed on his hand. Jewelry, Harry thought, though he couldn’t remember Daniel ever wearing any before. 

“Daniel, what’s going on?” 

“_Daniel_,” the boy echoed scathingly, sounding more and more like someone other than the earnest, helpful kid that Harry had gotten to know the past few months. 

“What—are you—?” Harry couldn’t quite form the question. He couldn’t shake this sense of an eerie threat emanating from Daniel, ridiculous though it was. 

“You should go to the party,” Daniel said dully. “Before he realizes you’re up here, and then we’ll both have problems.” 

“Since when are you so afraid of Tom?” Harry wondered, folding his arms. 

“_Tom_,” Daniel scoffed, but he was turning away without offering a real answer. “You heard me. Get lost!” 

Harry winced. Daniel had never taken that tone with him, and though it was silly to let a teenager get under his skin, Harry’s feelings were hurt. 

“Fine,” he breathed, reaching for the door. Once more he paused, searching the shadows. “You’re really okay?” 

He saw Daniel’s head turn, though he still couldn’t see his face. His voice sounded softer, stranger, when he said, “Yes, Harry. Now go.” 

Back down in the thick of things, the party was picking up. It was always like this at the house; early in the night it was just the members and their closest friends, then came the members of other houses and other official invitees, but by eleven, the people pouring through the door were just random students who’d heard there was a party. 

Tom continued to be impossible to find, so Harry shrugged it off and decided to just get drunk. 

He’d forgotten that when Tom wasn’t around, he got treated like a regular pledge. So, instead of drinking himself, he found himself manning the beer pong table as some combination of referee and scorekeeper and pitcher-refiller. It was nice, actually, to have a designated task at a party like this, where Harry was inclined to feel overwhelmed and out of place. 

Rosier was hanging around the table and pretending like Harry wasn’t there. That was a mood he got into sometimes, so Harry didn’t let it annoy him. But an hour later and sloppy drunk, Rosier wound up leaning against the table talking to Harry incessantly. 

Harry only got every third or fourth slurred word over the din of the party. Every time he said “huh?” Rosier said “maybe we should go somewhere quieter!” So, Harry stopped saying “huh” and instead just nodded like he was following Rosier’s rambling about being a pledge, rights of passage, Tom’s arrogance, and the cellar. 

“Wait, did you say cellar?” 

Rosier’s grin turned sharp as Harry blinked and looked him straight in the eye for the first time in a few minutes. He wasn’t as drunk as Harry had thought. His eyes looked normal and focused, if a bit reddened. “You bet,” he said. His hair was sweaty and plastered to his forehead; normally, he painstakingly put product in to make it seem thick and voluminous. Harry hoped spitefully that someone got a picture of him looking like this instead. 

“What about the cellar?” Harry didn’t exactly have a fear of closed places, but his upbringing had left him uncomfortable with them in general, especially in the dark. If the seniors thought they were going to lock him in the cellar or something, they had another thing coming. He didn’t care about getting confirmed that much. 

“That’s where you’ll choose your final challenge,” Rosier said, grinning and leaning toward Harry. “A sacrifice to the Source of our Fortune.” 

Okay, so he was definitely just as drunk as Harry had thought. 

“Sounds like a great time, Rosier,” Harry said with exaggerated patience. There was a cry of defeat from one end of the table and a cheer from the other. The celebration promptly resulted in someone overturning the pitcher. Harry winced at the crash as it hit the floor. He pushed Rosier lightly in the chest to get enough room to move past him. “I’ve got a job to do. You can finish your ghost stories later.” 

“S’not a story,” Rosier insisted, sounding frustrated. “You’ll see, little pledge. Maybe I’ll even win the draw.” 

Harry took the pitcher to the kitchen, planning to leave it in the sink and get a new one to refill. He caught a glimpse of Tom through the pass-through window into the dining room. Harry couldn’t mistake him, even in just a glimpse: the angle of his chin, his pale cheek. He crossed the room to the swinging door but froze with his hands pressed against it in the moment before pushing it open. He’d heard Tom say his name. 

Harry wasn’t much for eavesdropping, but he couldn’t be blamed for pausing at the realization Tom was talking about him, could he? 

“...twins…” someone else was saying, in a deep voice with a scornful edge. “...trouble than you’re worth.” 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Tom said in a rough whisper that still carried easily through the distance between them and the barrier of the door, like he was speaking straight into Harry’s ear. Then he must have turned or moved, because the next few words Harry couldn’t make out at all. 

Whatever Tom had said, it made the other man laugh. “You’re pretty worried about this, aren’t you? How long did you honestly think you could keep him in the dark?” 

“...a while...and...fucking think…” 

Harry pulled back from the door, frustrated and confused. He managed to get out of the kitchen, even though he stumbled against a barstool before he made it to the door to the rec room where he’d come in. 

“Finally!” called a shaggy-haired sophomore from over by the beer pong table. “But, Potter, what the hell? Where’s our pitcher?” 

“Pitcher! Pitcher! Pitcher!” chanted the rest of the group, plaintive. 

“I’ve got it, Harry,” said Seamus, appearing with a harassed expression and a hat on his head that looked like the head of a penis. “If you’ll…” he gestured feebly toward the hat. 

“Fuck, no,” Harry said, dodging him and walking back toward the kitchen with a deflective raised hand. “No fucking way. I’ll get the pitcher.” 

Tom was waiting for him in the kitchen, because _of course_ he’d heard Harry fumbling around in there while he tried to flee. But what Harry hadn’t expected was that Tom wouldn’t be alone; leaning against the counter next to him was Professor Riddle. 

“Hello, Harry,” they said in unison, a murmured chorus that made Harry’s heart leap into his throat. Then they shot each other annoyed looks, and Tom hastily pushed off the counter and walked toward Harry, hands outstretched slightly from his sides in the universal gesture of “see? I’m unarmed.” 

“Darling,” Tom said quietly, “I need to know how much of that you overheard.”


	4. Troy

Harry crossed his arms. “Not much. Enough to suspect you’re lying to me about something.” He shot a look at Professor Riddle, unable to conceal his confused shock. “Professor? What are you doing here?” He blushed and rubbed the back of his neck, stepping out of range of Tom, who had continued to inch closer like he might reach out and touch Harry. 

Professor Riddle was observing Harry with the same laser-focused stare from class. Before, it had been across a lecture hall; here in the dim, relatively small space of the kitchen it was doubly intense.

“I was going to say he should call me David, but Professor has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it Troy?”

Harry looked over at Tom with a frown, ignoring the low and suggestive tone _his Professor_ was using. He was probably just hearing things. He was used to Tom meaning everything a certain way, and their voices were so similar.

“Why does he call you Troy?”

A muscle leapt in Tom’s cheek and his hands fell slowly to his sides. “Perhaps it’s time you knew,” he murmured. Harry noticed that his hair, always so carefully arranged, had been ruffled up the back somehow. He wondered if Tom realized.

“Is this really the time?” Professor Riddle sighed, his gaze snapping away from Harry with the same abruptness it had latched on. “We have...matters to resolve before father’s visit.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I thought your father was dead.”

“You asked if I had a dad, and I said no, which was accurate,” Tom said absently, still looking faraway. His right hand had formed a loose fist and his thumb was moving rhythmically from the second knuckle to the tip of his forefinger, as it sometimes did when he was weighing a question. 

“I…” Harry began, but a loud banging noise from under their feet cut him off. “What the fuck?” Harry exclaimed, staring down at the floor like it was going to crack in half and spew lava. 

Professor Riddle and Tom exchanged looks that were so similar and ashen, Harry’s already leaping pulse hammered harder in his ears. 

“He’s early,” Professor Riddle said quietly.

“Harry,” Tom said, voice a bit strained, “Would you please wait for...me...by the fountain? I’ll be there presently.” He glanced at his wristwatch and sucked in a breath. “Actually, I’ll be there in...three minutes.”

“I don’t…”

“Harry,” Tom said sharply. Harry felt a pleasant stinging pain in his right bicep where he still had a perfect red mark from the last time Tom had tied him up. “Do as I say.”

In certain contexts, that voice would have had Harry tripping to obey. However, real life wasn’t the bedroom. Harry had opened his mouth to argue when the banging happened again and a girl in the yard screamed.

“_Go_,” Tom insisted. 

This time Harry went. 

Outside there was a curious energy. Some people—the casual guests and the random kids from the school that Harry didn’t know—were spilling out of the gate to the backyard. The house members were strangely solemn and sober, even the ones that had been convincingly drunk all night long. And every member who had a steady boy- or girlfriend seemed to have him or her on their arm.

Harry couldn’t spend much time wondering what the hell every member of his house seemed to know that Harry didn’t. (Well, maybe every other member but not every other pledge; Dean and Seamus were standing close together, wearing their penis hats and looking out of sorts.) All Harry could dwell on was the fact that Tom was standing by the fountain, one foot propped up on the concrete base and his elbow resting casually on his knee.

Impossibly, he was wearing slightly different clothing than he had been in the kitchen and his hair was neatly combed instead of disheveled.There was absolutely no way he could have gotten past Harry on his way out, nor circled the building and come in another way in the minute or so since Harry’d seen him.

Harry walked slowly in his direction, buffeted by the people still pressing past toward the gates, somewhat herded by juniors, Crabbe and Malfoy, who looked grim but weren’t panicking, chanting things to the distraught coeds like “Take turns, single file, nothing to worry about, don’t drive drunk.”

Then he was at Tom’s side. Harry opened his mouth to demand an explanation and took Tom’s arm in a firm grip while Tom smiled, bemused.

“What’s the occasion?” he purred, cutting Harry off. He gazed at Harry’s fingers locked tight on his elbow. “You want to change things up tonight, sweetheart?” When Tom was feeling sadistic, he called Harry “sweetheart,” so even under the circumstances, the word made something short-circuit in Harry’s brain and his hand went lax, sliding helplessly down Tom’s forearm.

“How…?” Harry began, searching Tom’s face for signs of—what, he thought hysterically? One of those science-fiction-movie masks? This was obviously Tom. Tom had also been in the kitchen a moment ago, which wasn’t possible. But it must be possible. One of Tom’s elaborate tricks. “I just saw you inside,” Harry finished in a feeble murmur, overcome.

Tom’s expression shifted at once. He opened his mouth, brow knitted, like he was about to speak, but then the gate slammed shut and they both looked around to find that the last of the casual party-goers had gone, and most of the house was looking at Tom like they expected an announcement.

Apparently that was exactly what they expected. Tom’s hand slid into Harry’s, holding it firmly, while he swept the assemblage with a calm smile. “So, it begins tonight! A little earlier than we expected, but then again, there’s no schedule to the Source’s gifts of Fortune.” He gestured toward the house. “If everyone will go inside, I believe we’ll let the sophomores go first this round, shall we?”

The sophomores Harry could see all looked horrified, but raised no objection to whatever the fuck it was Tom was telling them to do. They were the first to file into the house. One of them, Aaron Thomas, had a very drunk-looking girl Harry had never seen before tripping after him. He held her hand in a bruising grip. The sight made Harry uneasy, even as she giggled and hurried along, oblivious to the solemn energy that had overtaken everyone else.

“_Tom_,” Harry said through his teeth. “Explain.”

Tom frowned, turning toward Harry and looking at him carefully in the eye. “Not right now,” he said, in an apologetic tone, but Harry could see that he was holding himself taut. He got like this sometimes when he was under intense pressure. Like when they’d had that hearing about the suspected honor code violation. (Harry was pretty sure Tom _had_ been selling essay exam answers to their classmates for a premium, but of course, Tom had been found innocent in the end.)

“There isn’t time,” Tom said, his hand crawling up Harry’s wrist, so he could dig his thumbnail into the soft skin above Harry’s pulse. A surge of calm automatically welled in Harry at the deliberate touch.

“You fucking do that _now_,” Harry breathed, genuinely angry but unable to totally stifle his response. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Tom said sweetly, not looking sorry at all. “Can you call Ron to take you home?”

“It’s three blocks,” Harry said, pulling his hand away and cradling it against his stomach. He felt a knot in his chest and a lump in his throat, glancing up at Tom uneasily. “Do I have to go?”

Could Tom really order him around and leave a mark on his wrist and then _send Harry away_? It was...it felt...particularly wrong, not to follow him upstairs. Like Tom had initiated something in Harry and now refused to follow through. Something Harry was powerless to finish alone.

Tom, as usual, understood everything Harry wasn’t saying. “Yes, sweetheart,” he said, stepping close to Harry and kissing his cheek, hands resting lightly, carefully, on Harry’s waist. “You’ve been so very good.” He turned his face slightly toward the house. They were alone, now, in the yard. “I have to go, but first, I’ll give you your present. Since you’ve been so good.” He pulled something long and slender from his pocket. Leather. A collar. He pressed it into Harry’s hand and Harry blushed furiously, even as his heart thudded in delight.

“It’s…”

“Yes,” Tom agreed, kissing his other cheek. “When I see you again, you had better be wearing it.” And just like that, he was gone, leaving Harry holding the collar so tightly the leather bit into his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re halfway there! How is everyone?


	5. Tom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments and support. We’re in the home stretch now!

Harry woke up wondering if he’d drunk too much, or possibly drunk something spiked. Whatever the reason, he thought of the events at the party as a dream. His alarm was going off because he had—History. Professor Riddle. Harry laughed at the thought that somehow Tom’s brother had wandered into his kinky dream. A dream where Tom had given him a…

Harry sat up hurriedly and lifted his pillow from amidst the rumpled sheets on his bed.

Sure enough, it was there. The collar. Harry picked it up immediately. The leather was warm and alive from being close to his body all night. The buckle gleamed.

At least part of the night hadn’t been a dream, then. Harry fingered the leather for a few long moments, shivering.

He was late to class.

“Why are you dressed up?” muttered the kid sitting next to him, whose name Harry thought was Chad. His own rumpled t-shirt had a red stain on it that Harry hoped was from breakfast and not dinner the evening before.

Harry swept a hand down the front of his button-down self-consciously. It was the only thing he’d been able to find that would cover the collar. The collar which he’d put on without thinking it through, with eager, shaking hands. He’d buckled it tightly so that every breath took just a little effort.

“No reason,” he murmured back, fishing his notebook out of his bag.

“Good morning, students,” said Professor Riddle breezily. Harry looked up sharply, almost dropping the notebook he’d just gotten his hand on, but Professor Riddle wasn’t looking at him. He didn’t once, throughout the whole class. Meanwhile Harry struggled to pay attention, mesmerized by the way Professor Riddle’s trousers gripped his thighs when he leaned against the desk with a bent knee. He had a split in his lip that he kept touching with the tip of his tongue.

It was the collar, and the weird dream, and the way Professor Riddle was ignoring him, like he wasn’t even there, like he was beneath Harry’s notice. That must be why Harry was fidgeting and impossibly turned on by the end of the hour. The only thing that kept him in check was, when his thoughts got entirely out of hand, staring hard for a second at the stain on Chad’s disgusting shirt.

But when the bell rang and Chad leapt to his feet along with everyone else, leaving Harry belatedly stuffing things back in his backpack, he was suddenly without that convenient distraction. And Professor Riddle wasn’t ignoring him any more.

“Harry Potter,” said the Professor thoughtfully. Harry looked up slowly to find those intense dark eyes settled on him. The self-satisfied look on his face was so like Tom, and also so distinct. He had an unhurried grace that Tom didn’t, but maybe Tom would grow into it one day. “We meet again. Come down here, please.”

Harry really, really didn’t want to. The collar was making his shallow pants shallower still, and with just a few more dirty thoughts about Professor Riddle’s tongue he’d be visibly tenting his jeans. But when he hesitated, Professor Riddle pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes.

“Harry,” he said sharply, and that was all it took.

Harry came slowly down the stairs in the center aisle to the lecture hall floor where Professor Riddle waited.

Unlike Tom, he seemed able to grow a beard. His mouth was so supple, Harry didn’t think that the split came from being chapped. In fact, he detected the slightest swelling, like someone had hit him with a glancing fist or the back of their hand. Harry was sure he hadn’t noticed anything like that the night before, had he? But then, the kitchen had been dark.

He realized he was staring at his Professor’s mouth and then, in the next moment, realized said Professor was well-aware of where he’d been staring. Professor Riddle bit his bottom lip very gently, revealing only a glimpse of straight white teeth, and put his head to one side. His fingers drummed against the edge of his desk.

“I’m sorry that my brother couldn’t take better care of you last night,” said Professor Riddle quietly. Harry thought the safest place he could look was at those drumming fingers. If he looked at Professor Riddle’s face, he knew he would fixate again on that pink imperfection at the corner of his lip. The hand seemed more neutral. Except his fingers were so long and manicured, flexed over the curve of the desk, the tapping so measured and rhythmic; hypnotic.

“It’s fine,” Harry said quietly, shifting from foot to foot, feeling like his backpack was suddenly heavier than it should be. “I don’t need to be taken care of.”

Professor Riddle chuckled, low and unmistakably sensuous. “Oh, that isn’t true,” he said, so quietly and deeply it was like listening to a purr. “It’s not just what you need, but what you deserve. Look at you. Such a prize. Even two  _ boys _ couldn’t do you justice. They lack a  _ man’s _ skill.”

Harry’s confusion infiltrated the haze in his mind and he blinked a few times, meeting Professor Riddle’s eye with a frown. The fact that he was being absurdly inappropriate made sense in Harry’s mind. He was so like Tom, and Tom was never appropriate, either. It was something else he’d said that caught Harry’s attention. “What do you mean, ‘two boys’?”

Professor Riddle smiled patiently, his head still tilted, the corner of his mouth still red. “Think about it, Harry. I’m sure you’ll come to your own realization. And when you do, please remember my door is always open.” He winked. “At least during office hours.”

*

Harry drifted through his next class. When his World Governments professor had to ask if he was alright before he snapped out of his dazed stare and noticed the entire lecture hall had already emptied and he hadn’t realized it, he became concerned.

He used the pay phone in the student union to call Dr. Riddle. It rang three times and went to the answering machine.

“It’s Harry. Sorry to bother you. I’m just having one of those days. You know the kind, I think? And you said, if that happened, I should call. So.” Harry looked at the students streaming in and out of the building on the other side of the smudged plexiglass. The silence on the other end of the line suddenly felt painful. “You know what, never mind. I’m overreacting, for sure. Sorry for bothering you. Bye.”

*

Harry went by the Delta Omega Phi house that afternoon. Pledges had to check in at least once a day. Outside the front entrance, the yard was impeccable, betraying no sign of the party the night before. And on the front steps were Seamus and another pledge, Terry Boot, looking nervously at Harry as he came up the walk to join them.

“Did Tom tell you what happened last night?” Seamus demanded without preamble, worrying his lower lip. “Everyone acted like it was nothing. But what the fuck? And what’s in the fucking cellar?”

Terry looked at Harry in mute appeal. Harry shrugged, tousling his hair uneasily. “I don’t think we’re remembering it right. We were drinking.”

“I wasn’t,” Seamus snapped. “I didn’t want to be drunk  _ and _ wearing a penis hat. One or the other is risky enough for my reputation.”

Terry snorted and a ghost of a smile passed over his face. “What reputation? No one knows who you are.”

“That’s fine,” Seamus said loftily. “That’s better, actually. They’ll never remember me as a pledge. Just as a fully-formed member.” He then glared at Terry. “Also, that’s  _ so _ beside the point. What is a ‘Source’?”

Terry, reproved, resumed frowning tensely in Harry’s direction.

Feeling harassed, Harry held up both his hands to physically ward off their attention. “Guys, I don’t know. Tom doesn’t tell me anything. I’ve told you again and again.”

Seamus searched Harry’s face a moment, then his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Yeah, I guess you’re probably being honest about that. He  _ is _ an asshole.”

Harry opened his mouth to disagree, then closed it and sighed. “Yeah, he is,” he muttered in agreement.

The sound of footsteps on the pavement made the three of them turn. Blaise Zabini was at the foot of the brick steps up to the entrance, his grin vivid in his handsome face. “Hello, fellow pledges,” he said breezily. “Why the long faces? In a few more nights, we’ll be full members!” He clapped Terry, then Harry, on the shoulder in passing, nudging them out of his way so he could get to the door.

“What do you know, Zabini?” Seamus demanded. Zabini, a legacy, knew all, but in the past he’d refused to share any knowledge.

Apparently this topic was no exception. He gave them a smug look and a wink, but Harry thought it might be a facade, at least in part. There was a little extra tension to that heart-stopping grin of his that gave it away.

Then Zabini turned and flung the doors open. “All I’ll say is that whatever you’re imagining is wrong. Come on, we’ve got five minutes before rounds.”

“Rounds” consisted of gathering by the trophy case in the main-floor hallway and waiting for one of the upperclassmen to select you for a job. This usually led to demeaning chores like polishing someone’s soccer trophies or doing their laundry. Whoever claimed you could ask you to do anything, as far as Harry knew, and if you said no your pledge status was withdrawn.

As they walked up, there were only a few guys waiting there, and all of them seemed solely interested in Blaise. Oliver Wood got him first. Apparently he’d changed one of the juniors’ lives by reorganizing their closet by color and occasion (whatever that meant). Harry hadn’t experienced much variety in his tasks. Ever since the very first day he’d been ushered into the hallway to wait, Tom had claimed him.

Today was no exception.

He was leaning against the staircase bannister, wearing slippers, silky black sweats and a halfway-done-up pajama shirt that he managed to make look elegant. It was unbuttoned just far enough that Harry could see the chain of the necklace Tom rarely took off, tapering to a V over his collarbones. His eyes were slightly red, like he hadn’t gotten enough sleep. He smiled warmly at Harry and crooked a finger, then folded his arms.


	6. Mark

Harry walked over cautiously, reminded that he had questions, but the collar he’d been wearing all day felt tighter than ever, and Tom’s eyes were resting knowingly on the top button of his collared shirt.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he murmured, not reaching for Harry. He was standing on the first step, which made him several inches taller than usual. It was like approaching a smug king on a pedestal, a thought that simultaneously made Harry feel annoyed and turned him on. Which was, he thought wearily, his relationship in a nutshell. 

“Well?” Tom asked expectantly. Harry hesitated, then met his eye and nodded slowly. 

“I’m wearing it.” 

Tom looked unsurprised but instantly more intense. He reached out and slid his hand around the back of Harry’s neck, pressing into the shape of the collar. His touch felt so heavy Harry could have collapsed under it, but instead he let Tom lead him up the stairs that way, one step below him all the way, Tom’s silky pajama bottoms brushing his arm. 

When they got to Tom’s room, he released Harry next to the bed, then went to his desk drawer. His steps were calm and sure but the movements of his hands were quick, betraying his own excitement in a way that made Harry feel strangely proud. He sank down onto the edge of the bed. The collar had really done a number on him today. As had the morning’s conversation with Professor Riddle, to be honest, but he was reluctant to raise the topic of his elder brother with Tom. He had a feeling it would be almost as bad as trying to discuss Dr. Riddle. 

Tom turned, holding a familiar length of black silk. He stood in front of Harry and secured it over his eyes. The darkness used to make Harry impossibly tense, but now he associated it with Tom, who only asked him to be patient and pliant and obedient, which Harry knew he could do. He could do those things so well. So he relaxed at once as Tom leaned him back onto the pillows, sprawled on his back. 

“You sweetheart,” Tom said, sounding far away. He cupped Harry’s ankles one at a time and slid off his shoes and socks.. 

Then he sounded close again; slightly breathless. “There you are, love.” Harry blinked under the blindfold. Somehow the fabric was blacker than the back of his eyelids. Tom hadn’t called him that before, and his voice sounded more guttural, almost like — 

Harry felt a hand slide down his chest, fingertips-first, as though someone was standing behind him and leaning over the headboard, even as the mattress shifted between his legs where Tom must be kneeling. 

Harry didn’t worry about that. He was used to feeling disoriented while the blindfold was on. Then the touch lifted from his chest, and he felt Tom tugging at his jeans, pulling them off entirely, running his hands up Harry’s thighs. He dug in just a bit with his nails, hard enough to leave a mark but not to break the skin, and the delicious sting made Harry arch up into his touch. 

“So needy for me. Was it the gift that made you so desperate?” 

Tom wasn’t touching his legs anymore. Harry felt tugging on his shirt as the buttons were loosened, one by one, quickly, eagerly. When Tom reached the buttoned collar, he simply jerked hard and Harry felt the stitch tear as the button popped. 

Then Tom’s long fingers were caressing the collar: the edge, where it had rubbed Harry’s skin all day, and, pushing hard, the buckle. It bit into Harry’s windpipe and cut off his deep breaths. 

Just like that, Harry was dropping into a deep, quiet place, boneless on the mattress as Tom encouraged him in alternating rough murmurs and whispered praise, and what sometimes felt, impossibly, like both at once. Just a blur of perfect sound, his hands feeling like they were everywhere at once. A tongue pressing into Harry’s throat beneath the collar while two hands cradled his jaw, even as he felt stroking around his hole. 

A hot breath in his ear. “Perfect.” 

A grunt and half-frantic thrusting fingers inside him, slippery with lube. “Ours.” 

Harry thought dazedly: Tom really was like having two boys. Was that what Professor Riddle meant? And if so...how would he know? 

That led Harry’s sluggish and dizzyingly vivid imagination down a path of nonspecific context but wherein Tom and Professor Riddle took turns with him. Or took him at the same time. He could almost imagine it: Tom in his ass, just like he was now, replacing his fingers with his cock before Harry was fully prepared, like he couldn’t wait. Harry loved that. Feeling like he was irresistible. It made the pain until he was fucked open feel like a prize. Then, Professor Riddle would put his knees on either side of Harry’s waist, lean forward, and fuck his mouth. 

Harry could almost feel it, he was imagining with such intensity. The mattress sinking beneath another, significant weight, and the musky smell of a cock held before his face. His mouth dropped open. He felt a warm, silky touch on his tongue, and groaned. It had to be a finger, but in his addled state it felt larger, hotter, softer. 

“Idiot,” Tom hissed, and again, Harry’s mouth was empty. 

Harry keened, thrown off-kilter. Tom always called him “darling” or “sweetheart” in these moments, and told him he was good. Hearing the opposite felt like being snatched from somewhere warm and dropped in cold water. 

“No, no, no, sweetheart,” chanted Tom at once. Harry’s wanting mouth was presented with a kiss, fast and dry, but Harry thought the angle seemed surprising, mostly on the right side of his mouth. 

“You perfect, beautiful boy.” That melodic version of Tom’s voice again. “I was talking to myself.” 

Harry yearned to lift his heavy arms to Tom’s knees, trace the muscles in his thighs that he knew would be bulging with the strain of suddenly holding still. He knew better than to move when he wore the blindfold. 

“Not an idiot,” Harry managed. “Unless you don’t finish fucking me. Then an idiot. Definitely.” 

Tom chuckled as Harry was hoisted a little higher, Tom holding him tightly by one thigh and bracing the other by Harry’s shoulder, leaning in. Harry felt the heat off his chest, his breath against Harry’s collarbone, and then his cock was stroking Harry’s prostate with each pass and Harry couldn’t think about anything else. 

Harry came on Tom’s cock, which, as always, made Tom come too. He growled into Harry’s ear the whole time, as his hips stuttered in an ebbing rhythm, as he grappled to hold onto Harry’s thigh, made slippery with sweat. 

“Mine, mine, mine.” He sank his teeth briefly into the collar, like he wanted his signature there. 

Harry looped his arms around Tom’s trembling back when he finally became completely still, still buried in Harry. Harry thought he heard the door open, then quickly close. He smirked at the thought that someone might have almost walked in on them, and then wondered if he should care more about Tom’s habit of leaving his door unlocked. 

“Thanks for the present.” 

Tom breathed out a laugh, pressing his smile into Harry’s shoulder. “It was more for me than you.” He pulled out and lowered Harry’s body back to the mattress, then reached for the blindfold. Harry wasn’t allowed to remove it himself. 

Harry blinked up at Tom, light-sensitive and light-headed. Tom stroked the arches of his cheeks, the bony ridge under each eye, with his thumbs. Harry put one of his still-heavy hands on the back of Tom’s neck, where the silky hair was just long enough to have grown over his nape. 

“Tom,” Harry began in a pleasant tone. 

“Hmm?” Tom’s hands had moved back, inexorably, to the collar, and his eyes were fastened there too, intent. 

Harry continued, all reasonableness: “Now that I made you come, will you tell me what the fuck is going on in the cellar?” 

Tom looked at Harry in the eye immediately, his hands going lax on Harry’s shoulders, the collar momentarily forgotten. “What?” 

“Don’t look so surprised,” Harry said, immediately exasperated. “Did you really think you could just fuck all the questions out of me?” 

Tom narrowed his eyes, and Harry laughed incredulously, then bucked his hips and shoved Tom at the same moment, throwing him off balance and off of Harry, just as Harry rolled away to glare at him from the other side of the bed. “Oh my God! You totally did!” 

Tom sighed. “I can’t tell you. It’s a house secret.” He looked annoyed that Harry was asking. 

“This isn’t like asking what the secret password is to get into the video game room on Thursdays, Tom,” Harry muttered, lifting himself into a sitting position, which made an ache bloom in his tailbone that he felt in his fingers and toes. He paused, grimacing, until it passed, then stood up with more care. 

Tom flopped back down on the bed with what could only be called a pout on his face. “How do you know it’s not just more video games in the cellar?” he asked with a shrug. “Or bowling.” 

Harry glared at him. “We both know it’s not. And there was the…” It still seemed half-real, half-dreamt. “The noise. And the shaking. It was like an earthquake that only happened under the house.” 

Tom lifted himself onto his elbows and wrinkled his nose. “I can’t tell you. But you’re going to find out — ” he sat up, scowling at his knees “ — soon enough.” 

Harry felt a wave of disgust. Partially with Tom, and mostly for himself. Why did he let Tom lead him around blindly? It was fun in bed, but anywhere else it was just pathetic.Harry found his boxers and jeans and pulled them on, his hands shaking. He heard the sheets rustle as Tom sat up. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m leaving.” 

“No.” 

Harry looked up, incredulous. “Uh, yes.” He stepped into his shoes. “You can’t just lie to me all the time and expect…” Harry trailed off, frustrated. Why wouldn’t Tom think he could do whatever he wanted to Harry? Harry let him, again and again. 

“You can’t,” Tom insisted lowly. “You’re still on rounds.” 

Fury boiled over in Harry and he reached down, took off the shoe he’d just put on, and pitched it at Tom’s head. 

It hit him in the cheek with a satisfying thud, and Tom immediately clutched the side of his head, eyes wild. 

“Harry!” He was too shocked to sound angry, but Harry knew that wouldn’t last. He took off his other shoe, too, and went straight out the door in bare feet.


	7. Lindsey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!!! Thanks for reading and commenting. We’re almost to the end! For those who are confused, I’m sorry. 😩 as usual my abilities and my vision are not perfectly aligned 😂
> 
> No beta on this one, so all mistakes are my own.

“More fighting?” Ron asked cautiously, eyeing Harry’s bare feet and chattering teeth and wisely commenting on neither. He wadded up a blanket and threw it at Harry. Harry wrapped it around his shoulders, dropped into the bean bag chair which was the only place they had to sit that wasn’t a bed or desk chair, and let his head fall back. The ceiling had that 80s texture. Popcorn, he thought they called it.

“I’m an idiot.”

Ron slid out of his bed. He was wearing athletic shorts that showed off his pale, hairless calves, as slender and gracefully curved as a girl’s. Harry’s nose was starting to run from the various effects of walking barefoot in the cold from the fraternity house to the dorms.

“Stop staring at my legs, perv.”

Harry sniffed. “Sorry. They’re nice.” 

“Hermione’s studying at the coffee shop. Let’s go bother her and I’ll buy you a hot cocoa.”

Harry stood up as Ron dug out his old tennis shoes from under the bed and tossed them his way. “She’ll be so pissed,” he said, smiling a little.

Ron grinned up from under his messy fringe. “I know. It’ll be great.”

*

As it turned out, they didn’t make it to the coffee shop. They were halfway there when someone Harry had never seen before jogged toward them, waving his arms.

“Are you Harry Potter?” he asked through his pants. He was wearing a business suit. There was a sheen of sweat on his head, visible through his thinning hair.

“Yeah,” Harry said, sharing a confused glance with Ron. “What...what’s up?”

“The Dean asked me to fetch you.”

Harry had been vaguely aware that Founders College had a Dean, but he had no idea who that person was or what they did. 

“Isn’t that the one whose kid is missing?” Ron asked.

The man in the suit looked distractedly at Ron and blinked, frowning. “No, that’s the assistant dean. Dean Warren. I was sent by Dean Riddle.”

Harry could only stare, then blurt, “Are you fucking with me?”

He looked around. This was just the sort of elaborate prank he’d seen his would-be fraternity brothers pull before. But how would they know how it would resonate? He’d only shared with Ron his shock about discovering that his Professor was  _ that _ last-name-Riddle.

Speaking of Ron and shock, his best friend’s blue eyes were wide and his mouth was hanging open. At least if this was a hired actor, Ron had nothing to do with it.

The man in the suit looked distressed. “I’m not...erm, fucking with you,” he said, stumbling over the curse word. “I’m his assistant. See?” He poked himself on the left side of his chest. He was wearing an official-looking gold metal name tag with the college crest on one side and in print on the other “Maynard Malfoy, Assistant to the Dean.”

Ron squinted at the name tag and then turned solemnly toward Harry. “Seems legit,” he proclaimed.

“Right, because a  _ name tag _ is impossible to forge,” Harry muttered, but he thought from the man in the suit’s blotchy complexion and watery gaze that he was either being honest, or a more talented actor than anyone in Delta Omega Phi could have found on short notice. “Sorry. It’s just...my boyfriend is Tom. Tom Riddle. I didn’t know his...dad?...was…?”

The man — Maynard, God, what a name — blinked, looking calmer. “Oh! I see. Such an interesting coincidence.” He laughed a little harder than was appropriate. His teeth were cigarette-stained. “They’re brothers.”

A single, painful ache pulsed through Harry’s temples. “Of course,” he said faintly. “Of course they are.”

“If you’ll follow me?” the assistant asked nervously. Harry looked over at Ron, who shrugged.

“Better go, buddy. I assume that the  _ dean _ could like, expel you.”

Harry sighed and nodded. “Probably. Okay, Mr. Malfoy. Lead the way.”

*

The dean wasn’t in his office when his assistant delivered Harry there. His office looked exactly like a Professor’s office should: paneled in dark wood, with high ceilings and ornate carved headers over each door. There were two glossy wooden-backed chairs the same color as the walls with leather upholstered seats. Harry sat in one of them to wait.

The Dean’s desk was a regal object, wood like everything else, but painted shiny black with subtle gold accents here and there. The pattern at first looked like nothing but scrolls and leaves, but eventually Harry realized that it was peppered with snakes in various poses: coiled, arching, or prepared to strike, both eyes depicted in pinpricks of gold.

When the Dean came in, Harry grappled with his reaction. For the Dean was as obviously Tom’s relative as Professor Riddle. In fact, he was beginning to think that if they were all close in age, like Tom and Daniel, they’d be virtually identical.

“Hello, boy,” said the Dean, frowning at Harry. He wore a three-piece suit which was old-fashioned in that bold way that Harry supposed people meant by the term “classic.” His slacks and jacket were navy, and the vest and shirt were the same shade of ivory. His ascot tie was dark red, like drying blood. Like Dr. Riddle, his hair was no longer dark, but it was pure white rather than silver-streaked. His eyebrows were still dark and gathered over his narrowed eyes in a very familiar look of disapproval that made Harry feel hot with shame, though he had no idea what he’d done to deserve it.

“Hello, sir,” Harry said, surprising himself. He didn’t think he’d ever called someone “sir” in his life. The Dean looked surprised, too; pleasantly so. His furrowed brow eased and he smiled. His face  _ was _ lined, but it only came out in his expressions, making them startlingly intense. Harry thought the man must be past his sixties, but he was still, like every Riddle, one of the best-looking people Harry had ever seen.

He walked closer to Harry, circling him in the chair. His cologne was spicy and only detectable when he leaned over Harry, grasping the arms of his chair, so that they were eye to eye. Harry, frozen, had no idea how to react.

“I see,” said the Dean after a moment, straightening back up; Harry had to crane his head back to hold his eye. The dean smiled, barely detectable: a twitch of those expressive lips. “Indeed. I see.”

“S-sir,” Harry managed, the word feeling more natural already. “What did you, er, need from me?”

The Dean circled his desk and sat in the chair opposite Harry, his posture just as erect as when he’d been standing. He steepled his long, pale fingers on the desk. His cufflinks flashed, gold as the snakes’ eyes. “My brother wonders if you’re truly ready for the task at hand. I echo his skepticism. You are clearly adequate. But are you ripe?”

Harry was baffled, and not equipped to mask it. The look on his face, whatever it was, made the dean smile again: just that quick quirk of the mouth, there then gone.

“I see,” he said to himself. He reached into a desk drawer and took out a sheet of paper that curled a little on the ends, like a scroll. The pen he chose from the rack also looked like something lost to time, practically a quill. He scrawled something on the paper, folded it, and passed it toward Harry. “A note,” he explained. “Excusing you from the rest of your classes today. You should rest.”

“I’m not…” Harry leaned all the way forward so he could reach the edge of the desk and picked up the note. “I’m not ill.”

“You should rest,” the Dean repeated. “The evening will require all your strength, I assure you.” His eyes traveled thoughtfully over Harry’s face. “Go back to your dorm and go to sleep, boy. Do you understand me?”

Harry’s neck felt hot. He’d taken off the collar when he’d gotten home, but now he missed it. “You said something about your brother. Did you mean—?”

“Yes.”

“But I didn’t even say…”

“It doesn’t matter. Yes. They are my brothers, all.”

Harry blinked. It felt like the answer to all of his questions and none of them at the same time. The dean got out a second sheet of paper and began to write on it, but this time he didn’t look up at Harry. “Go, boy,” he muttered. 

Harry swallowed and got up, clutching his note. He thought, after he made it through the door, that he had no idea what to do with it, but fortunately the hovering assistant, Mr. Malfoy, snatched it from his hand and read it over.

“I see, I see,” he murmured to himself. “It will be taken care of. Good morning, Mr. Potter.”

Harry nodded and found his way to the hallway, then out of the administrative building and into the sunlight. He thought of finding a pay phone and trying Dr. Riddle again. He was sure that he needed something; that this was exactly the sort of circumstance where Dr. Riddle would want Harry to ask for Dr. Riddle’s help. But the Dean had told Harry to go home and go to sleep, and Harry wanted to be good.

*

Harry only knew one way to sleep in the middle of the day, so he took two of the pills Dr. Riddle had prescribed him and curled in his blankets. It didn’t take long to go under.

Harry dreamed he heard voices, and felt a constant, shifting touch.

“Perfect…”

“...he can do it…”

“...made for this…”

“...ours…”

“...meant to be…”

“He’ll see.”

*

When Harry woke up, it was early evening and Ron was rummaging in his dresser. He frowned when Harry yawned and stretched.

“Are you sick?”

“No.” Harry felt loose-limbed and relaxed. “I’m great.”

Harry almost said he was staying in; that he couldn’t imagine going back to Tom, who, he realized, hadn’t even bothered to check in with him all day. Maybe he was angrier than Harry thought about that shoe to the face.

“Tom said you weren’t feeling well,” Ron said absently. “Guess you slept it off?”

“When did you see Tom?” Harry frowned. They hardly had classes in common, and when they saw one another, they tended to deliberately head in opposite directions.

“Just now,” Ron said. “He was leaving when I came in.”

Harry felt like his heart had stopped. There were a lot of liberties he allowed Tom without thinking about them very hard, but the idea he’d come and gone while Harry was sleeping…

“You mean from the building?” Harry thought his voice sounded high, but Ron, scowling into a drawer, didn’t seem to notice.

“No, the room. Where’s my black t-shirt? The one that makes my arms look good?”

The room. Fuck. Harry looked down at himself like there would be some evidence of Tom tampering with him, but he looked normal. So did the room; maybe a little tidier than usual, but everything was more or less in its place. 

“Did you borrow it again?” Ron complained. “Harry, what the fuck?”

Harry buried both hands in his hair. 

_ What the fuck _ ? Harry’s thoughts exactly.

*

So, Harry went to the Delta Omega Phi house. He’d demand to know what Tom had been thinking, breaking into his dorm room while he was sleeping. (Possibly he’d ask whether Tom had done anything like that before? But Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.)

The house looked dark and quiet from the street. Unusual for a Friday night. Harry paused on the sidewalk, seized by some reason by the urge to turn and run. While he hesitated, someone came up behind him.

“Harry?” He turned, surprise almost making him stumble over his feet, to find Dr. Riddle standing a few feet away on the sidewalk, his hair tucked behind his ears, his glasses pushed down his nose. “Are you all right?”

“Dr. Riddle,” Harry breathed, feeling a rush of relief. “You’re...what are you...?” Harry swallowed, realizing belatedly that Dr. Riddle obviously wasn’t here for  _ Harry _ , but for something to do with his younger brother. It was Tom’s house he was standing outside, and he probably didn’t know how much time Harry spent there.

Dr. Riddle smiled warmly and reassuringly, like he’d been reading Harry’s mind. He had always given that illusion, as far back as Harry could remember.

“I was looking for you,” he said in his deep, rhythmic voice. “I received your message on my answering machine. It made me worry.”

As usual, Dr. Riddle was dressed in a way Harry might have thought formal before he’d encountered the dean. Now his attire looked sleek and simple: black trousers, a black turtleneck.

“I’m fine,” Harry said automatically, then frowned. “Well. I’ve been confused,” he admitted.

Dr. Riddle looked sympathizing. “I know, Harry. But everything will be clearer soon. You were here looking for Tom, I assume. Shall we go inside? It’s cold.”

The house looked just as abandoned inside as it had outside, and the shadowed hallway felt colder than the front lawn. Harry shuddered as they stepped inside. Dr. Riddle slid an arm around his shoulder and drew him against his side. Harry remembered how he’d once craved these passing, casual displays of affection. His eyes welled a little. He’d missed Dr. Riddle

“They must be in another part of the house,” Dr. Riddle murmured, guiding Harry along. Harry followed, lost in the warm of Dr. Riddle’s solid body, his sure and comforting grip. 

“Tom’s room is upstairs,” Harry mentioned, looking up at Dr. Riddle as he walked past the foot of the stairs toward toward the formal dining room.

Dr. Riddle hummed in acknowledgement. He kept walking and Harry went along without another word. 

Inside the dining room were six more people, seated at intervals down the length of the long dining table which was gleaming with moonlight through the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the room. Harry looked from one end of the table to the other and froze under Dr. Riddle’s arm. 

Dr. Riddle rubbed a soothing circle over his bicep.

“You’re fine,” Dr. Riddle said in that low, insistent voice that had convinced Harry, several years earlier, that he could live with all his early traumas. Harry was torn by absolute trust in that voice and what it told him, and disbelief and panic at what he was seeing.

In the chair nearest them, twisted around from the head of the table, was the Dean of Founders College. He wore the same pressed navy suit from earlier, and he was watching Harry with that same dark gaze. 

To his left was Professor Riddle, smirking at Harry. 

To his left was Daniel, scowling at Harry with uncharacteristic malignance. But across the table was another boy who could only be Daniel, and with a much more familiar expression of concern and protectiveness.

_ Twins _ , Harry thought bleakly, remembering the scene the night before in Tom’s room much differently.

And worst of all, in the chair to the right of the foot of the table sat someone who could only be Tom, except that in the next seat sat another person who looked exactly like him. They were as identical as David and Daniel. They were twins.

“Troy,” Harry said, anger burning where for a long moment he’d only felt shock. His gaze flew between them and for a moment they were the same person to him. But then, seeing them side by side all his confusion evaporated like a curtain he could never have seen through before, but swept away, it revealed a truth he couldn’t deny. One of them was gentler, held Harry’s hand under the table at house meals and seemed to actually mean it when he asked Daniel how he was.

One of them was especially interested in the marks he put on Harry which drew blood, and told jokes that weren’t funny, but became self-conscious if the audience didn’t laugh anyway.

Those and a thousand other differences. He would never mistake one of them for the other again, he was sure, with or without a blindfold.

“Seven,” Harry managed eventually, having come full circle and back to crippling shock. Dr. Riddle was more or less holding him upright, the arm around his shoulders having descended to support him around the waist.

“Not exactly,” Dr. Riddle said with a sigh. He patted Harry’s hip. “Don’t be concerned, love. We’ll all take excellent care of you. Won’t we?”

Eerily similar smiles spread around the table, and a low chorus of voices said “yes” in unison. Harry leaned harder against Dr. Riddle, not sure he could explain the reason his heart raced. There was fear. Plenty of fear. But it wasn’t Harry’s predominant feeling.

At least, not until the Dean announced it was time to “descend” and pointed toward the cellar. Then Harry tried to twist out from under Dr. Riddle’s arm and run.


	8. The Source

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Posted early at the request of Tabala! ❤️
> 
> Thanks for all the help with the ending from Miraculous. ❤️❤️❤️

They were all out of their chairs at once, but Dr. Riddle held him fast without their help.

“Harry, we need you,” said Daniel, and Andrew glared at him with open spite.

“Only because of  _ your _ fuck up,” he spat.

“She—“ Daniel began, with a stormy look, then wilted back in his chair and looked miserable. “Sorry, Harry.”

“It is premature,” Dr. Riddle allowed, his grip vice-tight on Harry’s wrist. “We waited as long as he would allow.”

“You keep saying  _ he _ ,” Harry looked around at them. “Which one do you mean?”

“Our eldest,” said the Dean calmly. “He who has granted the rest of us our good fortune. And at last, boy, he requires that we bring you to him. There is no alternative; you may go willingly, or disappoint us and refuse, in which case we’ll pick you up and carry you. Your choice.”

Harry, panting, looked down the table again in mute appeal.

“Harry, you were made for us. If you open your mind, you’ll know it’s true.” Dr. Riddle lifted the hand that wasn’t locked on Harry’s arm and brushed his hair from his forehead, stroking the old scar from the surgery Harry didn’t remember, after the car wreck that had killed his parents. “I gave you more than the gift of life when I saved you, don’t you see?”

Harry stopped breathing. “You mean you—did something to me?”

“I used his magic to save you. I couldn’t have predicted how it would affect you.” His gaze drifted from Harry’s eyes to his mouth. “Or how  _ we _ would be affected.”

“His...magic?” Harry said weakly.

“Yes, the Source, who resides…” he paused, then nodded in the direction of the cellar. “ _ Below. _ ”

Harry was beginning to think he’d had so many shocks since walking into the dining room, he was immune to them now. Nothing could surprise him, not even the mention of a supernatural being who lived under his frat house.

“What happened last night in the cellar?” He figures he should ask his questions while Dr. Riddle was in such a forthcoming mood.

Dr. Riddle looked back toward the others with a shrug. “I don’t know the details. Tom?”

Tom and Troy had been whispering to one another but now they pulled apart. 

Tom looked swiftly from Dr. Riddle to Harry, and frowned. “The first step. A couple deflowered virgins. No harm done.”

Harry’s mind was completely blank. “The sophomores just...had sex? In the  _ cellar _ .”

“There is power in it,” the Dean said dismissively. “Will we stand around all night  _ negotiating _ with a  _ boy _ ?” He directed this question to Dr. Riddle, not Harry.

Before they could argue, the ground shook. A seam of red light flashed from the hallway that led to the cellar entrance.

“Time’s up,” snapped the Dean. “It’s him or the girl.”

“What  _ girl _ ?” Harry managed, heart pounding with the urge to flee. Dr. Riddle had relaxed his grip just a touch. If Hart could distract him just a little more…

“Step two is the human sacrifice,” explained Troy. 

“We don’t need her,” said Professor Riddle, looking annoyed. “Not to mention she’s a  _ terrible _ choice.”

“I wanted Harry to be left alone!” Daniel exclaimed, defensive. “None of you care about him. You’d just have him bound to  _ him _ , like us, and not give him a say…!”

“Enough!” said the Dean, as the floor began to tremble again, a slow and steady building of intensity beneath them. The dim sconces in the foyer flickered. The oversized glass window panes groaned.

“You’ve been killing people?” Harry whispered into the silence. 

The men looked uneasy. “We’ve all made one offering,” Professor Riddle said quietly. “Except Daniel.” He pointed. Daniel looked red-cheeked and miserable. 

“You...kidnapped that girl, didn’t you? The assistant dean’s daughter?” When Daniel nodded, Harry felt a nauseating combination of disgust and a tiny amount of gratitude that Daniel had tried to save him. He hung his head, feeling all the urge to flee culminate in dizzying panic, yet he knew he wasn’t going anywhere. “If I go with you, will you let her go?”

Dr. Riddle’s hand relaxed on his arm, suddenly gentle, approving. “Of course we will,” he murmured.

“But Harry, you don’t think—“ Professor Riddle laughed incredulously when Harry looked up at him. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You  _ do _ . Harry, we aren’t planning to use you as a human sacrifice.”

Harry wasn’t sure he was relieved just yet. Did they imagine something even worse than that? “Well I’m not a virgin,” he said flatly. They all laughed, except the younger twins, who blushed.

“No, but all sex has power. Especially ours. Especially yours. Especially all of us together.”

Harry lost his balance and had to catch himself against a chair. The laughter stopped and gave way to a tense silence, filled with the rumbling beneath the floor which continued, muted but ceaseless.

“If we...then what?”

“Then we will draw the Source fully from his realm, and no future sacrifice will be required.”

“And you’ll let Myrtle Warren go?”

“Yes.”

Harry looked slowly around the room and tried not to think about what all the people there were prepared to do to him. The elderly Dean, the smirking Professor, the twins who’d let him think they were both his boyfriend, and two sixteen-year-olds, one of whom he’d thought of fondly as a kid brother for months. The doctor he’d seen as his savior his entire life.

“I’ll do it.”

The cellar stairs were steep and stone. The electric light bulbs installed at intervals along a link of copper conduit were partially obscured by protective metal caging. The quaking floor made the steps difficult to navigate. They were rough-hewn and looked much older than the historic mansion that housed the fraternity. 

At the bottom of the stairs Harry stepped onto the level stone-paved floor, and the tremors stopped at once.

He shivered. It was an ordinary enough cellar. Just a stretch of stone floor and walls, the ceiling overhead webbed with pipes and conduit. There was a depression at one end of the room like a pool. Harry walked slowly toward it until he felt someone touch his arm, a restraining gesture. When he turned he saw Tom. His expression was cautious.

“You’re doing the right thing,” he said.

Harry narrowed his eyes. “That’s rich, coming from you.” Troy watched Harry over his shoulder.

“So tense,” said Dr. Riddle, his hand on the small of Harry’s back. “It’s okay, Harry. You’ve enjoyed more than one of us before.”

Harry had figured as much. He slanted a glare at Tom and Troy. “Two of you,” he said, his voice small, as he looked up into Dr. Riddle’s kind face. “Not...this many.”

“More than two,” said Dr. Riddle kindly. He dipped the tip of his finger into the corner of Harry’s mouth, and Harry felt a burst of memories at the simple trigger. Hands everywhere, a blur of voices, this particular fingertip, he was sure, pressing against his incisors, his gums.

“You?” he managed, too disbelieving to protest, and shamefully — no, shamelessly — wrecked by the very idea. Thinking it was only Tom there, unaware beneath the blindfold, when Troy and Dr. Riddle were there too…

“Tell me it wouldn’t be nice,” Dr. Riddle coaxed, stroking his hair. “To take us two at a time until you’re sore and too exhausted to stay on your hands and knees. And then, when you collapse, to let the rest crawl over you and fuck you til you’re slack and dripping.” Harry’s lips parted unconsciously and Dr. Riddle smiled, pushing past his teeth and rubbing his tongue, humming approvingly when Harry gently sucked his finger.

“That’s our boy,” Dr. Riddle said sweetly. He didn’t look away from Harry. “Come, then, Lindsey. We all know you’ll want him first.”

The Dean stepped away from the others, back rigid, his stare direct. Harry had never fantasized about older men before, but there was something bizarrely erotic about the perfect silver of the dean’s hair, the way his veins shone through the skin on the backs of his hands as he carded his fingers through Harry’s hair in passing. 

“His ass or his mouth?” asked Dr. Riddle, still rubbing his thumb over Harry’s teeth, now pressing the pad into the sharp part of his lower incisors. 

“I want him to look at me,” the Dean said, continuing to walk around Harry until he wound up on Dr. Riddle’s other side. Dr. Riddle sighed.

“So did I,” he said a little sadly, taking his hand away. Harry leaned toward his retreating hand unconsciously, making him smile. “He has such lovely eyes, and I have had so few occasions to appreciate them.”

The Dean’s touch was firm and impersonal as he gripped Harry’s shoulder and lowered him toward the floor. The stone was rough even through his jeans. Harry looked up at him as he knelt, slowly and with a grimace.

“Hell on my knees either way,” he muttered. “Come on, pretty boy. Open your mouth.”

Harry fell onto his hands. The stone was cold. The Dean unbuttoned the navy trousers Harry had admired in his office.

His pubic hair was silver like the hair on his head, which came as something of a shock. His cock, though, looked and felt familiar. Were they all made the same? Harry wondered, feeling half outside of his body as the Dean held the back of his head and pressed his half-hard cock in all the way. Even without being fully erect, it was more than Harry could take at once without gagging, but when he struggled and coughed the Dean simply held him, unmoving, until he finally whimpered and relaxed.

By that time, Dr. Riddle was behind him. He shoved Harry’s jeans and underwear to his knees, touching him with fingertips slick with lube. He rubbed his fingers over Harry’s hole, then down, past his balls, stroking his upper thighs until they were slick too. With every brush against his balls, Harry jumped. His sack had always been sensitive, and Dr. Riddle obviously knew what he liked. He’d obviously fucked Harry before.

The thought made Harry moan, which in turn made the Dean thicken the rest of the way, pushing him an inch down Harry’s throat like the stopper on a vial. He fought instinctively, as Dr. Riddle steadied his hips, holding him in position so he could increase his pace.

“Good, boy,” murmured the Dean, drawing back just enough Harry could suck in air, then cough at the cold saliva he’d inhaled with it. The Dean held himself in one hand and kept Harry’s head up with a handful of his hair, making shallow, gentle but insistent thrusts at an angle against Harry’s inner cheek.

Dr. Riddle slid his hands down Harry’s thighs, then back up, and grasped his cock.

“Fuck,” Harry mumbled around the Dean’s cock, and the Dean pushed in further.

“Suck me, boy,” he murmured, still pulling Harry’s hair. “Come now. Is that your best?”

Harry could hardly keep his thoughts straight sufficiently to suck. Particularly when Dr. Riddle pushed his cock an inch into Harry’s ass without any prep except lube.

“Show him how good you are, love,” crooned Dr. Riddle. 

Harry did his best. Within a minute, his cheeks and jaw were sore and the Dean was growling, back in so deep Harry couldn’t breathe and was scrambling for balance. When he went totally limp, Dr. Riddle, now buried in him and rocking, not thrusting, and the Dean, pushing back into his throat, came simultaneously.

The Dean pulled out as Harry sputtered and coughed, his head hanging between his shoulders, still leaning against Dr. Riddle’s forearm, his cock flagging. He hadn’t come.

“You, then, David?”

Professor Riddle knelt in front of Harry, tilting his chin up with his knuckles. He looked thoughtfully into his eyes. His face was blurry through Harry’s watering eyes, but he appeared fascinated. “All to myself?”

“The twins are used to working together,” said the Dean. “And this will give him a chance to breathe.” He patted Harry on the back as he walked away. 

Professor Riddle reached between Harry’s legs and stroked him. “Come here,” he murmured, moving his hands to Harry’s waist and sitting back, tugging Harry into his lap. “Warm me up. The floor is cold.”

Harry climbed out of his jeans and underwear and straddled Professor Riddle, feeling awkward and dazzled by having his face so close to Professor Riddle’s. His five o’clock shadow, the warm, sure weight of his hands patiently positioning Harry, then pulling out his cock. Like the Dean and Dr. Riddle had, he otherwise remained clothed. Harry sank down onto him with a whimper.

He was sore now from Dr. Riddle sheathing himself without stretching Harry first. And his thighs strained from the position. But Professor Riddle held his head close with a hand on his neck and kissed his cheek, stroking his cock steadily with the other.

“I told you that I could take care of you,” he whispered to Harry, leaning his mouth against Harry’s ear. “You feel so good. Look how you try so very hard to please. Ah, yes, like that. Faster. If you can make me come, you can come too.” 

Harry groaned and picked up speed, his quads on fire, until he was practically bouncing. The faster he went the harder and faster Professor Riddle jerked him.

Harry couldn’t help it. He came.

“Bad boy,” Professor Riddle chided, fucking up into Harry and biting his neck. “Very, very bad.”

Harry’s head hung over Professor Riddle’s shoulder as he gave in, boneless, to Professor Riddle’s fevered thrusts from beneath him. The pool was behind Professor Riddle. Harry was looking straight at it. A shallow level of water was inside. When Professor Riddle came at last, the water bubbled and rose.

Tom and Troy cradled him gently, Harry’s head in Tom’s lap while he nursed Tom’s cock, Tom stroking his hair, Troy between his legs, holding the backs of his knees, starting slow and then building fast, like he couldn’t contain himself.

Harry was dazed after they finished. He heard the water start to steam. Tom kissed his forehead as he slid out from under him and Harry was left briefly alone on the floor.

It didn’t feel hard or cold anymore. Harry had tipped over the line of oversensitivity and he could no longer trust his perceptions. The rock was soft as down, the Riddles’ inaudible whispers were harsh as shouts.

“Harry,” Daniel said, then took an audible deep breath. Harry jumped when he felt Daniel’s mouth, hot and inexpert, on Harry’s flaccid cock. The shock made his vision sharpen back into focus. Daniel’s twin’s face hovered above Harry’s, looking stricken. He reached out with a tentative hand and stroked Harry’s cheek.

Daniel petted Harry’s thigh and Harry realized he was getting hard again in response to Daniel’s clumsy efforts. His mouth was wet and hot and worshipful.

“Your...name?” Harry asked Daniel’s twin.

The boy looked puzzled. He tucked Harry’s sweaty hair behind his ears. “I’m Andrew. Can you stand?”

Harry wet his lower lip. “No.”

“Then…”

“Just,” Harry sighed. “Fuck my mouth. Like this. I d-don’t mind.”

Just two more. (Wasn’t that right?)

“Harry,” Daniel said, pulling off and holding Harry tightly in his hand. “Can I…?”

Harry got a glimpse of him as Andrew unzipped his trousers and swung a leg over Harry’s chest. Daniel looked wide-eyed, worried. He had one hand behind him and he was naked from the waist down. Fingering himself.

“Y-Yes,” Harry managed, and Daniel scrambled to get a leg over too. Then all Harry could see was Andrew’s cock as he fisted himself, eyes narrow and focused on Harry’s face.

“Open,” Andrew ordered. Harry barely remembered he was just a kid, likely no more experienced than Daniel. His mouth fell open and Andrew guided himself inside with a trembling hand, just as Daniel lowered himself into Harry’s cock.

Harry hadn’t been in anyone’s ass before. It was tighter than a cunt, but just as slippery-wet; Daniel must have been generous with the lube. He was making low, pained sounds like Harry was too much for him, but he sank lower and lower, not stopping. So brave.

Harry closed his eyes and sucked on Andrew while Daniel seated himself, grasping at Harry’s hips with his hands like he was searching for an anchor, like he didn’t know how to move.

Harry could sympathize, but the pressure without friction was torture. He couldn’t—couldn’t help bucking his hips the slightest amount then moaning at the feeling of himself shifting against Daniel’s walls, just a little.

Grunting, Andrew began to thrust into Harry’s mouth. Harry relaxed his throat, used to this from a time or two with Tom that he hadn’t admitted to liking as much as he did. Or, he thought vaguely, maybe it had been Troy. 

Daniel was rocking back and forth, working up the courage to lift himself up and down, but even just grinding against Harry, he felt overwhelmingly good. 

But he had to focus on breathing around he face fucking, which was vigorous now, Andrew on his hands and knees over Harry, his shirt pooled on Harry’s forehead, making short gasping sounds with every thrust.

The sounds were a chorus, Harry realized with a strange jolt of pleasure. A perfect one, because Daniel and Andrew sounded exactly alike, disbelieving and ecstatic, eager for Harry. He thrust up against Daniel and coughed and gasped against Andrew and came hard, straight in Daniel’s ass. It felt like nothing he could remember.

Andrew stayed buried so deep in Harry he couldn’t taste his come, only felt it pulsing in his cock and a strange trickling sensation deep in his throat. His own come leaked out of Daniel, warm and tickling in the crux of his thighs. 

“ _ Harry _ ,” Daniel cried, sounding forlorn, then his release spattered Harry’s chest, straight over the t shirt he still wore.

He opened his eyes. Andrew knelt beside him. Daniel lifted himself off carefully and then, avoiding Harry’s eye, tugged Harry’s clothes back into place. It was a nice gesture but Harry was sticky and sore and the remains of his clothes were even more so. The feeling made Harry grimace.

Then he remembered what all of this had been about. Steam was hissing in the pool. The water was in a rolling boil.

Harry turned his head toward the sound. All the Riddles formed a half circle around Harry and stared too. Tom extended a hand to Harry without looking away and Harry, suddenly loathe to be off his feet, took it. 

Something was coming out of the water.

The slick dome of a pale, bald head. A long neck; narrow shoulders; two long, skeletal arms extended from the sides of a narrow torso. A thin backside; long naked thighs. The water had boiled off to a shroud of thick steam that veiled most of the being’s lower half when it turned.

Harry gasped at the sight of its face, horrrific as a nightmare. Slit eyes red as embers. Vertical nostrils instead of a nose. A lipless reptilian mouth, curved into a pleased smile.

“Oh, my,” it said. Its voice was strangely high, but also familiar. As was its height, Harry realized with dread, and the set of its head as it looked at them each with approval and self-satisfaction. It looked like the Riddles.

“You’ve all done very well,” it said, its fierce face angling toward Harry. “Very well, indeed.”


End file.
